


Rowing (1)

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Devastation-verse [6]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-24
Updated: 2004-07-24
Packaged: 2018-10-21 06:59:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10680117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity





	Rowing (1)

  
  
The rain had persisted, and was coming down at an angle more nearly horizontal than before; the West was quite black and horrible, with roaring thunderclouds piled miles high above the flat fields of the Essex coast, and the ebbing tide had abandoned their little boat far up the shelly beach, so that Sparrow and Shaftoe had to grab a strake each and haul the vessel (sloshing rainwater and snagged bladder-wrack) down to the slippery mud at the edge of Leigh Creek, where Sparrow overbalanced and flailed elegantly for a moment until Jack Shaftoe caught his shoulder -- with perhaps a little more force than was strictly warranted -- and tipped him into the gig like a drunkard into a wheelbarrow; Shaftoe had spent some time around boats, Sparrow had to give him that, for he pushed the boat out into the river and got himself into the boat without overturning it, or getting more than his boots wet; "Lack of respect for your captain, mate," said Sparrow jauntily, handing Shaftoe both oars; "Tell you what, _you_ row us back to the lovely warm _Pearl_ , and _I'll_ make it up to you when we get there," which won him a barely-visible flash of smile through the rain, and an affectionately half-hearted kick; Jack Shaftoe's nautical experience clearly extended beyond the theft of boats to the principles of their actual use, for he feathered one oar and turned the little gig until the bow pointed straight out into the estuary, and then (facing aft like a Christian, not least so he could take his bearings from the wavering lights of the inn on the strand) braced his feet against the keelson and put his back into it; the gig shot over the water (shipping foam from the top of every third wave, but it wasn't as though either of them could get any wetter, between the rain and their haphazard embarkation) in pretty much the exact direction of the nameless shallow where the _Black Pearl_ dragged her anchor in the strong tide, waiting for a fair wind to carry her out of the estuary; Jack Sparrow slitted his eyes against the driving downpour (at least the rain was fresh and didn't sting like seawater) and wished that he could make out the lines of Shaftoe's shoulders, his corded throat and sweeping collarbones, the curve and bulge of his biceps and triceps and pectorals, the line of warm sweat that must already be there, drowned beneath sea-spray and icy rain, between his lip and his nose, and along the line of his collar; it was utterly unjust, of course, of Jack Sparrow to sit back at his ease and require Shaftoe to do all the work, and he found himself opening his mouth (the cold, chalky rain instantly slamming against his tongue, washing away the faint taste-memory of Jack Shaftoe's kiss) to speak the fateful words that would land him with an oar of his own and a fair share of the labour: but Shaftoe, he reasoned, would never hear his voice mingled with the roar of the sea and the rain; wouldn't see him in the darkness (though, now that his eyes had adjusted, there was a faint, pewtery glow from the sea, or possibly from the air itself), wouldn't be watching him at all, because his entire being was focussed on getting them both back to the _Black Pearl_ through a treacherous ebb-tide and weather that was foul indeed -- though surely now the wind would rise! -- and, once on board, Sparrow had every intention of continuing his campaign of persuasion; why, Jack Shaftoe (having left his sumptuous Southwark lodgings in some considerable haste, and indeed in a _bag_ \-- only large enough to cover his head, but it'd made an effective blindfold; and the principle was there) had come aboard without as much as a spare shirt to his name, and Sparrow felt sure that he'd appreciate the loan of a good, clean linen shirt, though Jack, of course, would need to give him a good looking-over (like an offensively over-familiar tailor he'd patronised once in Lisbon) before he could sort out those garments most likely to fit Shaftoe, who was broader in the shoulders than Sparrow; he was rowing steadily into the storm, and Jack could feel the powerful stretch of his muscles transmitted into the very wood of the gig; surely he wouldn't wish to be distracted now, and anyway Jack Sparrow preferred to save his strength for later, when Shaftoe would be placid with exhaustion and deliciously amenable to hot rum, clean clothes (well, perhaps not precisely _clean_ , but not as soaked, sweaty and unwashed as those he currently wore) and a comfortable bed to sleep in, instead of whichever corner of the _Black Pearl_ he'd been crawling into at nights; Jack hadn't been at liberty to investigate his newest recruit's sleeping arrangements, though he was sure that someone or other would've mentioned it if Shaftoe had turned out especially lively or forward or, let's put a proper (improper) name on it, _lubricious_ ; and anyway, Jack was playing the waiting game, though just look how far _that'd_ got him -- at least until tonight -- for he'd every suspicion that Shaftoe would have carried on skulking around the ship, not actually taking his chances and striking out (assuming he could swim) for the shore, but not responding to the Captain's warm (indeed, hot) looks and inviting gestures either; it'd taken this little discussion, and its quite delightfully physical aftermath featuring Jack Shaftoe at his belligerent and impulsive best, all hot mouth and shoving limbs and strong, inquisitive hands that Jack longed to feel on his skin, be they never so blistered and callused; he shifted slightly on the splintery cross-thwart, and as if woken -- aroused -- by that movement, Shaftoe kicked Jack's foot and yelled something; Sparrow couldn't make out the words, but their import was clear, for Shaftoe was thrusting both oars towards him; and at that moment, in the West, a massive bastion of black cloud crumbled and a feeble saffron-coloured ray of sunset light (who'd have thought it was still so early?) spread over the leaden waves and fell directly upon Jack Shaftoe's broad, snaggle-toothed smile, as on a Saint, ha-ha, in a stained-glass window; and at that moment, Captain Jack Sparrow found himself willing not only to grab the oars and set to rowing, but to heap praises (mental praises, for he'd no breath to spare) upon Essex beer, upon the sullen barmaid of the Bell, upon the filthy weather and the treacherous, shifting sands of the Thames estuary, upon each separate and unique factor that had put him here in the gig this evening, alone with Jack Shaftoe grinning at him like that, and with the unshakeable sense of an understanding; that, once they'd climbed the towering hull of the Pearl and made their way to Jack's cabin, once Jack had barred the door and lit the brazier to warm them both as they stripped, he might at last be free to explore Jack Shaftoe with every sense, to feel him warming (physically and emotionally) under Jack's hands; the very thought made it suddenly, awkwardly uncomfortable to row.


End file.
